nightly. But Javier was inching toward becoming a career criminal, if he was not one already. Where would Javier be, Pete thought, if he’d had a father like Pete’s? He remembered the new world order after the 7-Eleven incident. His father drove him everywhere. No outings after school. Monitored homework sessions after class. On days Pete didn’t have school, he’d go to work with his father, to the station house at the Miami Dade PD. Pete was resentful and angry for years—it took even longer for him to forgive his father. But his father had made the right decision. What little of a life Pete had, he owed to his dad’s firm hand. Javier had gone down another path, though.
Could he have done more to help him? He was his friend. He’d failed him. Pete sighed. His eyes drifted back to the work-release information. Interesting, Pete thought. Pete didn’t immediately think of Javier’s neighborhood as a place for ex-cons. And from what the report was telling him, Javier was working 30 hours a week as a busboy at a restaurant in Westchester—a suburb of Miami where both Pete and Javier grew up and where they met and became friends.
Pete jotted down the restaurant’s name—Casa Pepe’s—and began to close down his computer when, on a whim, he did a quick search for the restaurant in the Times’ article archive. A few classified listings and ads popped up, as expected, but Pete was surprised to find an actual story appear as a result, a puff piece community news story, but a story nonetheless. Susan Frey, a reporter close to Pete’s age, wrote it. She’d moved to Orlando a few months back to take a business editor gig. He scanned the story, which profiled the restaurant’s owner, Jose Contreras—a Cuban refugee who, after coming to Miami during the Mariel boatlift of 1980 and spending a year in a Miami jail for assaulting a fellow refugee, toiled in the kitchens of various restaurants before finally cobbling together enough money to open his own.
It made him laugh. Did Miami really need another Cuban restaurant? The story went on to paint Contreras as not only a capable businessman, but also a good citizen, noting he had set up part of the Casa Pepe’s workforce as an approved work-release program for convicted felons in an effort to help them get back on their feet. Probably got a healthy tax cut, too, Pete thought as he finished the story. He printed out a copy of the story and jotted down the restaurant’s address after collecting his pages from the printer. This was something, Pete thought. He wasn’t sure what. He stuffed the folded paper in his back pocket and hooked his bag over his shoulder. Something to do tomorrow, he thought. Talking to Javier, if that happened, would shed a different light on the situation. But now it was time to cut loose a bit. As Pete walked toward the elevators, his screen flickered off, asleep.
Chapter Nine
T he Gables Pub was a shitty dive off Le Jeune Road, on the edges of Coral Gables, one of Miami’s swankier neighborhoods. The Pub reminded Pete of college and the dozens of nights spent drinking in the bar’s patio area, closing the place down, being politely—and sometimes not so politely—asked to head home by the patient waitstaff. His memories of the drives home were a little blurry, and Pete was grateful to still be in one piece. It had been a destination not because of a particularly great ambiance, but because they were notoriously lax about carding students and the bartenders mixed the drinks strong—an attractive combination for Pete and his friends at the time. Back when drinking a Long Island Ice Tea was a good idea because it fucked you up quickly, the Pub was where Pete and his buddies hung out. Pete, Mike, Emily, and a few others willing to risk missing class the next morning made the bar their salon, where they’d talk about their lives, the news of the day, or argue about whether Radiohead’s “OK Computer” was historic or hype, and when
Could he have done more to help him? He was his friend. He’d failed him. Pete sighed. His eyes drifted back to the work-release information. Interesting, Pete thought. Pete didn’t immediately think of Javier’s neighborhood as a place for ex-cons. And from what the report was telling him, Javier was working 30 hours a week as a busboy at a restaurant in Westchester—a suburb of Miami where both Pete and Javier grew up and where they met and became friends.
Pete jotted down the restaurant’s name—Casa Pepe’s—and began to close down his computer when, on a whim, he did a quick search for the restaurant in the Times’ article archive. A few classified listings and ads popped up, as expected, but Pete was surprised to find an actual story appear as a result, a puff piece community news story, but a story nonetheless. Susan Frey, a reporter close to Pete’s age, wrote it. She’d moved to Orlando a few months back to take a business editor gig. He scanned the story, which profiled the restaurant’s owner, Jose Contreras—a Cuban refugee who, after coming to Miami during the Mariel boatlift of 1980 and spending a year in a Miami jail for assaulting a fellow refugee, toiled in the kitchens of various restaurants before finally cobbling together enough money to open his own.
It made him laugh. Did Miami really need another Cuban restaurant? The story went on to paint Contreras as not only a capable businessman, but also a good citizen, noting he had set up part of the Casa Pepe’s workforce as an approved work-release program for convicted felons in an effort to help them get back on their feet. Probably got a healthy tax cut, too, Pete thought as he finished the story. He printed out a copy of the story and jotted down the restaurant’s address after collecting his pages from the printer. This was something, Pete thought. He wasn’t sure what. He stuffed the folded paper in his back pocket and hooked his bag over his shoulder. Something to do tomorrow, he thought. Talking to Javier, if that happened, would shed a different light on the situation. But now it was time to cut loose a bit. As Pete walked toward the elevators, his screen flickered off, asleep.
Chapter Nine
T he Gables Pub was a shitty dive off Le Jeune Road, on the edges of Coral Gables, one of Miami’s swankier neighborhoods. The Pub reminded Pete of college and the dozens of nights spent drinking in the bar’s patio area, closing the place down, being politely—and sometimes not so politely—asked to head home by the patient waitstaff. His memories of the drives home were a little blurry, and Pete was grateful to still be in one piece. It had been a destination not because of a particularly great ambiance, but because they were notoriously lax about carding students and the bartenders mixed the drinks strong—an attractive combination for Pete and his friends at the time. Back when drinking a Long Island Ice Tea was a good idea because it fucked you up quickly, the Pub was where Pete and his buddies hung out. Pete, Mike, Emily, and a few others willing to risk missing class the next morning made the bar their salon, where they’d talk about their lives, the news of the day, or argue about whether Radiohead’s “OK Computer” was historic or hype, and when
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